Waking Up
by mycerea
Summary: It's 2031, and some people haven't given up on their dreams of a happy life, even with a monstrous girl so far away. When technology allows a last, desperate grab at an impossible love, one busted-up vet bets it all on a chance. A mix of hard sci-fi, romance, and slice of life. Contains a bit of everything- sex, violence, adult themes, and maybe a bit of hand-holding.
1. The Box

For a million years or more, the nascent AI spins through the vast sweep of evolution, each response logged and the simulation adjusted faster than the human mind can comprehend. The trainer cycles through its innumerable array of situations until the AI slowly begins to develop into something recognizable, barely, as an animal consciousness. On the digital savannah, the AI's simulated body staggers into life, trying and failing thousands of times to stand, then to walk, then to run. Silently, the AI's body on the table might twitch slightly, the soft hum of electricity drowning out any sound as the trainer does its work. The lab techs, supposedly, are here for the entire process, but who could blame them for stepping out for a few hours as the decades tick past?

Once some threshold is passed- and it's different for every AI, or so the literature claims; I guess it's probably beyond the point of human understanding anyway- the trainer shifts gears, slowing down time. I'm fairly sure there's someone around for this bit; it's been known to get messy. Adjustments to reflexes, personality, maybe memories if that's what the spec calls for. Decades simulated to match every known detail of a life, constant tweaking to match inputs to outputs perfectly. Or not, depending on what who's paying wants. Maybe several lifetimes pass by for the AI, insensate, as its neurons are mapped and logged and pruned to produce a mind. The barrier between the cortex and brainstem is still in place, of course- no one wants the half-formed AI to gain a sense of self. Sounds kind of cruel, I suppose, but I'd scarcely want to have a human child suddenly gain adult intelligence while in the womb, either. This is all sort of speculation on my part, too- not only are the details carefully guarded by those who actually run this stuff, the actual human element is there at only the top layer. My best guess is that the trainer itself is another AI, without consciousness, married to some sort of program collating inputs. There's got to be at least some information to go on, of course. One of my buddies who went on to work for one of the big companies in AI tells this one story, about a guy who lost everything in a fire, and turned up with a photograph of his wife and a sobbing recollection of her smile. I hope that guy's happier now, I really do; my buddy sometimes goes quiet after he tells it and you can tell it's one story of too many.

The process slows down as it ends; from centuries in seconds to minutes to finally the snail-like tick of real time from the trainer as the fully-formed AI settles into a sleep indistinguishable on an MRI from a human slumber. Which, I suppose, it is- the greatest engineers are all lazy bastards, and every AI has a brain not of circuits but of synthetic neurons, scraps of carbon channeling ions along. More than a few, well, I suppose the PC term would be organic humans, nowadays aren't too different; it's become a trend lately for those at high risk of degenerative disease to get treatments that work autonomously, a tiny capsule that replaces every neuron as it decays with a synthetic one, assembled on site from the husk of the old one. I've joked that we're all the Ship of Theseus, but the folks who get that joke aren't the type to like me much.

Some never get woken up; the pinnacle of human ingenuity and bioengineering relegated to a shell of consciousness, a smiling butler or hooker or (well, it's _probably_ just a joke) celebrity with no spark behind the eyes; a cortex silently dark, with everything guided by base urges and programming. Not too dissimilar from me in the morning, just stumbling along in a bleary haze until I remember I'm still alive. Never till coffee kicks in; it's a slippery slope from caffeine to crack. Well. It's a handy compromise between the 28th and the 13th at least. I don't like it much but I suppose I'm a relic of older days in a way anyways.

Convenient that I'm thinking of soulless automata, I guess- the delivery guy seems to be coming to a halt by the corner. If it's small the FAA will grudgingly let them have a drone take a dump on your front steps, but the big shit is cheaper to haul by ground. It's always kind of pissed me off that even now that the engine noise can be anything as long as it's loud, they still sound like garbage trucks. I don't know how many times I've heard the rumble and hiss of hydraulic brakes heralding the arrival of some new parts or dumb fun stuff or whatever, only to pop my head out the door and see Waste Management's finest doing their thing.

The poor guy seems to be having some problems, so I heave myself off the couch and stomp outside, the screen flickering off behind me. It was just the news anyway. Shit's finally getting better but you wouldn't know it from what passes for journalism these days.

The delivery guy jumps as I call out, tablet almost falling out of his hands. Can't be more than 20, but every day it gets harder to tell. I'm not that old, I swear, but people are living longer and looking younger. Or looking way, way older, sometimes.

"Mornin', sir!"

He glances at me, then down at his tablet. He's a type 2- quick widening of the eyes, but I can tell he's seen stranger. Honestly, in some circles burns are cosmetic now, not that the dumb fucks won't regret it in a few years anyway. I think he's more surprised to see the "Semper Fi" shirt, given the usual clientele for this sort of delivery. He flicks the screen, probably hearing something directed only at him.

"You, uh, Mr. Carter?"

He holds out the tablet hesitantly, wavering between extending it to me and pulling it back in.

I grin at him. Up close, he's got the look of someone who's not sure how he ended up where he is now, and probably always looks like that.

"Yessir."

He hands the tablet to me, and I realize I'm more nervous than I thought. My palms are damp as fuck, and I'm starting to feel that hollow lump in my stomach.

"Let me, guess- sign here?"

He nods, and I unclip the stylus and sign my name. Honestly, I've forgotten most of my second-grade cursive ("This will be crucial," they said. "You'll need it every day," they said.), so it's just N squiggle squiggle, C squiggle squiggle.

"Uh," he mumbles, clearing his throat. "I just drive the truck, you have the legal stuff done already right?" There's an unspoken prayer in those words.

"Yup. Sure."

I actually have, but it's kind of funny to play along with him. Handing the tablet back, I clap him on the shoulder.

"Here, I'll help you unload and you can be outta here. Last stop?"

He nods. I'd ask him his name, maybe make small talk, but that'd be making it awkward for him. The tailgate clangs as I hop up into the truck. There's a few boxes off to the side, and I idly wonder if there's another truck doing the same route due to the massive box in the in center, held down by straps. I'm glad to see that there's a dark mesh layered around the sides, and someone had the presence of mind to integrate little wheels and a handle into the box design.

I swear there's a faint hush of air coming from inside as I brace my feet against the front wall of the cargo area and push, scraping the box along until we can lower it down off the tailgate. Hopping out, I nod at the deliveryman and grab the handles. The end result is a barely-controlled fall, but we do all right. Judging from the sheer size, I assume there's quite a bit of padding in there. The look in his eyes says he wants to leave now, go home, so I wave him off, telling him I've got it from here.

The box is huge and heavy, but I do my best. Thankfully, the doors are already large enough and there's already a ramp in back. About an hour of scraping and heaving and we're finally inside, box resting on the floor of the living room and me toppling back onto the couch with an exhausted groan.

I'm not really sure how to do this; I know vaguely what to expect and I've dreamed of this day for years. But that dull pit in my stomach is bigger and darker and I know I can't put this off. Fuuuuuck. Now I'm all nervous _and_ excited _and_ scared.

I wonder if she's dreaming right now.

Of course she isn't though, there's no higher activity going on behind her eyes yet. But before she became her, when her memories were etching themselves into her neurons, maybe there was a flicker. I know some people go all out and ensure there's a whole story in those memories, so waking up is no different than, well, waking up from a deep sleep. I couldn't bring myself to do that; all she had was her own story, bits and pieces from someone else's that made her who she is, and a dream of me. That last one was hard for me; I guess I'm a weak man after all. When she opened her eyes she'd know her own life and my own dreams of her. Maybe before there was a spark of a soul, she'd developed some sort of feeling for me. Love? I hoped. Hate? Resentment? I don't know. I can't know, honestly.

The old safe in the corner of my bedroom was ready, all sorted out over the past months of waiting and dreaming and fearing. A stack of cash, a plane ticket with no destination, an old M9 I used to use at the range. All of it laid out in neat rows on the table, next to a dish from the kitchen and a small puddle of water I figured wasn't worth the time to clean up.

Time to see what life would be like, I guess. I kneel down by the box, and a little voice in the back of my head wonders what it'll be good for after whatever happens happens. I suppose the worst-case scenario was morbidly amusing; the best left me with no clue. Shaking my head, I feel for the clasps and their subtle keys, triggering them in the combination I had been sent the day before.

Fuck. I wiped my hands on my jeans as a soft buzz and a red light pulsed just above the handle.

Four. Two. Four. Eight... Well, I had left out a nine. Figures. No pun intended.

The chime was surprisingly loud and a faint whine of pressure escaping beneath it jar my senses for a bit- I supposed it _would_ need to be pressurized. The whine ends in a snap of the lock disengaging, and I pause, resting my fingers on the cool metal of the box. It's larger than its size, in a way. Like a metal tomb in my living room. I know from years of red-eyed nights and quiet longing exactly what I'll see in there, every last inch and line, and the soft fleece blanket I used to sleep in since I was a boy, gently tucked between the industrial padding to keep... Fuck, I'm tearing up a bit. Well, to keep _her_ warm. I know she'd not really be her until I did what I had to do, and that the blanket wasn't really necessary, but it felt right. The right thing to do despite its incongruity.

I look down, my fingers resting under the lip of the lid with a gentle pressure. Maybe this is my last step to hell, a man too far gone. I'm not a praying man, but I'll leave you to guess why I'm whispering to myself as I see my eyes staring dully out at me from the scratched metal of the lid.

Time to do it. I heave, straining upwards until the lid ratchets into the back, my feet scraping the hardwood below. I jump back as the front and sides fall flat, the lid's weight kicking the back away as it hinges to slam into my wall. Deep in the corners of my mind, I know I'm gonna have to get that wall fixed, but it's far too deep to care right now. Like a cardboard box lined with heavy foam, smashed flat, the cold angles of the box lay on the floor. I'd hear the echoing rings of the flaps hitting the floor if my pulse wasn't rising up in desperate anxiety, a fast hammer in my ears.

I'd really, really loved that blanket, with its cute little sheep hopping over fences in a patchwork pattern with the stars and checkerboard rainbow of the top. I remember how it was fluffy and warm and made me feel like nothing could hurt me. I'd felt safer in that blanket than I had behind any amount of armor, and the last I had seen it I had packed it into a box with my dreams and sent it off with my prayers.

Now it lined the box, curving softly over a gently breathing form and swaddling its occupant away from view. Just below a small box packed against the bottom of the metal, I could see one pale hand wrapping itself in the blanket, squeezing the little sheep tight as its owner slept. The roar of my heart swells as I quickly grab the small box, opening it while my attention was fixed on the golden shine of hair peeping out from the top of the blanket, and the single lacquer-like crescent gently twitching, as if running in a dream, below the quilted edge.

Beneath the foam and tape of the small box is a flat gray tablet adorned with a caricature of a smiling robotic Cupid, his little arrows bearing sprigs of DNA. They should probably fire the artist, I suppose; it's not the most corporately bland, inoffensive image considering the circumstances, and it's pretty damn ugly for a company that doubtless pulls in billions. Moving on from the artistic crime, I tap the tablet and its screen comes to life, displaying the ubiquitous loading wheel and the standard warranties of disclaimer in text that's likely never been read by human eyes. The wheel pulses and fades, four lines of text appearing alongside a stylized scroll of happy couples on the side.

ABOUT

LEGAL

ACTIVATE

OTHER

I know everything in ABOUT and LEGAL, having pored over everything for months. I know what to do medically, as far as I'm legally allowed to. It's been a long wait, longer than the time from making the decision to today, and even the worst nightmares of now have been a frequent presence in my life. My eyes flick briefly to the soft rise and fall of the blanket-shrouded form, and I press OTHER, swiping through the menus I know by heart to rest on REMOVE CORTICAL BLOCK.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

I exhale, stabbing the rectangle onscreen and briefling noting the little brain diagrams floating on screen and fragments of text- REVOCABLE WITH ACTIVATION UNIT ONLY, GUARANTEES OF INTERACTION VOIDED before pressing the DO IT button that blooms into color when I hold the tablet over the sleeping form in the box. Another loading wheel, then all I see is OPERATION COMPLETE before gently placing the tablet by my knees on the floor.

Floor damage is the least of my concerns at this point; the crackle of metal grinding plastic and scrape of my foot breaking through to the hardwood below no doubt portends another set of repairs I'll have to figure out at some point.

Any thought of money, damage, or time vanishes as I hear a sleepy groan, and the blanket stirs. This could be morning for us, or the end of a dream. There's enough time for me to wonder whether I might have a heart attack before I see the blanket shift as she wriggles around. A brief flash of blonde hair sliding lazily over the checkered quilt and one furry ear pops out, twitching lightly in the cool air. I've forgotten how to exhale by now, as a full-throated yawn is distorted by the fluffy muffling, followed by a long sigh. A brief rustle, and I see her face for the first time again- blurred by sleep and with errant strands of hair blowing gently from her breath, but _her_. Seeing the curve of her jaw work as she swallows is amazing in the flesh, or the groggy flutter of her eyelids as her ear twitches in time.

Then a shock of blue to brown as her eyes meet mine, ears stiffening as her sudden flush of color matches my own instinctive blush. I rock back, not wanting to get too close. My throat is dry as my mind wheels through possibilities. Is she alarmed, afraid? Does she recognize me, can she recognize me? My stomach drops a million miles as my tongue swipes at a mouth gone dry, and I fold my hands and try to ignore the rising wave of fear. I open my mouth, trying to fight back the thunder in my ears. _Play it safe,_ my mind says. _This isn't your first rodeo_ , just as another little voice tells me that's in incredibly poor taste. I gulp and take a leap of faith.

"Centorea?"

5


	2. Tears

I couldn't breathe. Cerea lay there, head poking out of the blanket, staring back at me. She had to be thinking a million different things right now, and I had no clue what. The thunder of my pulse drowned out anything else as our eyes stayed locked together, and possibilities raced through my mind. Was she wondering who I was? Horrified at my appearance? I realized that my fists were clenched so tight I was almost bleeding as my nails dug in, and I could feel my legs quivering beneath me as I knelt.

Cerea propped herself up, the blanket falling down her shoulder as she raised herself up to gaze at me. Her ears twitched rapidly, working as if to signal her churning thoughts. I knew if I woke up in a box to find her staring at me, I'd probably be disoriented, confused, and full of questions without easy answers. At least I'd have a fuzzy blanket instead of a T-shirt and jeans, I supposed. I was all too aware of how thin they seemed, like she could see right through me and didn't like what she saw. Her eyes widened, and I assumed she was fully awake. When she opened her mouth, I could barely see, my vision narrowing to a tunnel closing on her face. My legs groaned as I leaned forward slightly, waiting for her first words to me.

Then she turned and coughed, raising her arm to shield the spray as her throat made a dry rasp. It hadn't occurred to me that she'd probably be parched; I guess she'd had a day or more without water; even asleep to an inhuman degree, she'd still probably feel that foamy gunk choking off her voice and making her voice feel like sandpaper on the way out. I couldn't help but think that even her cough was cute- a hint of a deeper rumble before her ears wiggled as it escaped. Standing up, I half-turned for the door, keeping my eyes locked on hers and suddenly uncomfortable with the cold sweat and the beginnings of a numb tingle in my thighs from crouching too long.

"I, uh," _Fuck_. I cleared my throat. "I'm so sorry, could- would you like some water?"

She nodded, shaking the blanket loose completely, leaving it pooled around her waist to swaddle her lower body. Self-consciously, Cerea shifted her weight to sit upright, and I realized she was facing toward my front door, awkwardly positioned against the wall.

I dashed into the kitchen, almost picking up a dirty glass from the counter in my haste before tossing open a cupboard and getting the largest glass I could find. A quick flick of the tap and I was over to the freezer, twisting the ice cube tray to crack them apart. One, two, and three cubes plopped gently into the water as I filled up the glass with the now-cold tap water, and I rushed back out to the living room, water splashing against my shirt as I went.

Cerea's eyes followed me as I came to crouch in front of her, and I extended the water to her, cubes rattling as the glass shook in my hand. I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile as she took the glass, fingers warmly brushing mine as she accepted it. Retreating a few steps, I knelt again as she downed the water, flushing slightly, and I realized she was probably just as worried and embarrassed as I was. Uncomfortable, I couldn't help but notice that they hadn't paid any care with her clothing, just a plain gray T-shirt concealing her form.

My eyes bounced back up as quickly as I realized, and I swallowed hard. Thankfully, her eyes were closed as she drained the last few drops, swallowing with a satisfied gulp. Her eyes opened, and the brief note of hesitation in her gaze led me to quickly reach my hand out, taking the glass back from her and setting it to the side. Her mouth opened again, just in time for me to cut her off in my own anxiousness.

"Do you want anoth-"

She flushed again, and I stopped, clamping my jaw shut. I was making a good old-fashioned clown show of myself, wasn't I? I nodded at Cerea, not trusting myself to speak. The pink in her cheeks bloomed into a deeper shade, and she cleared her throat again.

"Thank you. It is kind of you to think of me; I am so sorry to make such a display, but-" She stopped, eyes widening and brow furrowing in apparent consternation.

I smiled at her, praying on the inside that she wouldn't stop talking. Well, mostly, to be honest, because I had no idea what to say, and because just hearing her voice in the flesh was amazing. It was just like I'd imagined, almost like she'd been speaking in my dreams all these years. Like hearing cool water when crawling through the desert, just a faint hint of a lilt in her rich, golden tones. I couldn't help but smile, content in hearing her voice soak into my ears.

And like an idiot, I hadn't realized she had started talking again.

"-not my place to intrude, of course; it isn't very worthy, but-" She stopped again, and I could recognize the tell-tale signs of nervous rambling, being about to start doing so myself. I smiled at her, nodding in encouragement.

"It's fine; please go on."

Cerea was blushing heavily now, and I could tell she was just about as nervous as I was, from the quiver of her ears to her slightly-glassy eyes to a soft swish that must've been a nervously-flicking tail somewhere back there. She shook her head, looking back at me and holding my gaze.

"You- you're here."

I laughed, nervousness spilling out in a gush.

"Where else would I be?"

She lowered her head, and I immediately felt bad for making a flippant remark. When she looked back it was with shimmering eyes.

"No, it is- You're here."

Now my own eyes were welling up, stinging my skin as I fought the rising tide, hearing her words.

"How? You're just a dream- Forgive me, but I had just seen you in the night and now you're _here_ "

The tears started to flow for me, and at least I'd felt worse, and the sting of the salt was far off to me now. I parted my lips to speak, but all that came out was a damp croak. I couldn't blow this now, but I was starting to break down inside; Cerea was speaking for me as much as for her and even she was fighting her feelings for good or ill.

"I-" I stopped to collect myself, ashamed to speak.

"I'm sorry; I'm sorry. I saw you when I was weak, and-" choking on a sob, I continued- "you lit up my life just by seeing you; just by seeing your smile, in my dreams we were together…"

Cerea's eyes were shining, wet with tears as she leaned forward, hair falling in a golden shower to curtain her face. There was confusion and sadness and a strange light in those blue pools now.

"… I remember you; a dark fog is in my mind but I dreamt of you somehow, and thought of you sometimes, and…"

I settled my fists against the floor to steady myself, knowing I'd never say what I needed to say if I didn't spit it out now.

"Centorea, you were a dream of mine, someone else's dream I couldn't stop dreaming, and- fuck, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Fuck."

My lungs heaved and my stomach crashed.

"I'm sorry for the cussing, and the box, and it's not what you deserve, it's just- just, I had to take a chance- you're my dream, Cerea; I thought I could make you real."

I could feel the brine streaking over my burns, and great gobs of phlegm clogging my nose and throat as I let it loose. Even if she hated me for doing this, for not letting her just be a dream, this was the best I had; it was like she had stepped out of my lonely nights and gently settled in a cold metal box next to me, sleeping quietly until she woke up. If there's a hell, I didn't know what happened to dreams there; do you get to burn for ripping them out of your head and forcing them to life? Maybe I was already damned; I know I'd done some terrible fucking things and maybe I just deserved to die. I should've given up the dream a long time ago instead of clinging on, moved on and now I'd be seeing my kids go off to school and a nice wife. Maybe I'd been so broken that seeing her smile up at me from the page, or in a colorful sketch I'd bought of us together, or in the reams of terrible stories and attempts at bringing her to life, just for a minute, in the warm glow of creating some cute _thing_ that reminded me of her, or a frantic grab at life with her lab-grown body before me, was all I deserved, and I'd pay for my arrogance and stupidity with a long-delayed bullet. It's not like I hadn't thought of it before, the gamble that even a life of failures, the names on a scrap of paper in a drawer, a fucking shit show of a warped man who drank too much and fought too much and fucked up _waaaay_ too much would maybe win Pascal's wager and I'd wake up with a bullet in my head and her smiling face welcoming me home to heaven.

Now she was crying as she saw me turning into a puddle of tears and gunky sobs, her beautiful face streaked with salt. Her own words spilled out in a rush, punctuated with heavy intakes of breath.

"I wanted the dreams to be real; I know it's selfish and unworthy but I wanted a master I needn't share, someone who was brave and kind but mine, and… I remember happy days but hoping to see him again at night, when the others pursued Master I could at least rest my envy with hoping I'd see _his_ kind smile at night, and I even asked Manako to paint me a little picture from my dream, and now-" She heaved, drawing in a great shuddering gulp of air- "Now I'm in the dream somehow."

It hurt to breathe, forcing myself to not curl up and sob. I'd never guessed she'd actually have remembered the dreams of me, in her long sleep in the dark, that she'd have a picture of _us_ like the ones I kept locked away for my eyes only, buried beneath encryption and locked in a safe. Still, I had to struggle up, gazing back at her and feeling the tears scorch their way down my face. I had to say what needed to be said.

"Centorea, those memories of happy days, I'm- aw fuck, I'm so sorry. I took those from my dreams and someone else's dream; those dreams you had; I sent those; that was how I dreamed of you. It's all a dream, I did everything I could to take you out of the dream and bring you here."

I gestured around the room, not really caring anymore that I was red-eyed and desperate.

"Here with me."

Cerea's eyes widened, and I followed her gaze to land on the table. The pistol, the stack of cash, the ticket, and a small covered dish loomed up large in my eyes, and I looked back to see her lips part with a soft gasp, and I spoke.

"If you hate me for it, you- you can do what you want to do; I won't stop you."

My thoughts whirled; in her-, well, shoes wouldn't be the best term given the context, but close enough- I could easily decide to run or worse. My sweat turned cold as it sunk it, just a little bit, for the first time, what I had done- took a happy fantasy that had sustained me through years of pain and loneliness and forced it into reality, forced the soul of a dream into a body of flesh and carbon and metal because I couldn't bear to live without seeing her with my own eyes, and I did it all the moment the possibility became available. I counted up the dollars, and the time, and the long dark nights clinging on to the thought of those blue eyes finally opening and giving my world one small scrap of light. In those few seconds I felt my stomach lurch as I saw myself sprawled across the floor, furniture smashed and the better part of my head splashed across the wall behind me, unwilling to bear what I deserved for my arrogance.

A soft murmur wormed its way into my reverie, and I blinked, seeing Cerea before me with her features fallen. She reached out a trembling hand, laying it on my knee, and I realized any fear I might have had about her being cold and artificial had just vanished; there was a soft pulse in her fingertips, a warm heat radiating across my numb thighs and a pleading light in her eyes as she looked at me, tears shining.

"Am I unworthy of waking up, then?"

I realized that she wasn't just worried about herself, about this strange situation and waking up suddenly into an artificial dream. She was afraid I was rejecting her, and I could almost see the waves of hurt pouring off of her like a melancholy steam. I reached out, placing my hand on hers and trying to pour as much love into my touch as I could, my own thoughts clouding my mind and swirling a mixture of horror and hope.

"No, not at all. You're… Well, to me, you're perfect."

It was like a dam had burst for her, too; her eyes welled up with tears and spilled over, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders as she cried in what I desperately prayed was relief. It would be horrible, I realized, to wake up not knowing where you were and see someone out of your dreams, and then think they'd reject you out of hand, or far worse to feel that your entire existence was a sham rendered without purpose by one broken man's realization. I couldn't help myself; my hands squeezed hers and I leaned forward, knees whining at the sudden shift as the tension left my body and we came to rest on each other. I could feel the hard warmth of her forehead on mine, and I couldn't face her eyes, instead closing my own in a desperate attempt to block the tears out, and maybe some of the fears, and focus on the gentle press of our bodies together and the cool steel below. My arm swept across her back, and I buried one hand in her streaming hair, pulling her close to me as her ears brushed my face. I could feel the rapid thump of a racing pulse in her neck, or maybe it was mine- and the great shuddering gasps of relief she sobbed out with me. Our knees pressed together as she twisted bring me closer, an insistent pressure at the small of my back wrapping me into her. It seemed so far away, where the warm fur of her thighs met the tear-streaked metal of my knee, and the murmur of her heartbeat thumping into my own chest.

All I could focus on was the immediacy of her presence- the silky hair clutched in one hand and the gentle tickle of her ear on my neck as we leaned on each other. I could feel a soft flutter on the nape of my neck as her ears quivered, and the years of wanting to kiss her, hell, just to be _with_ her, melted into the overwhelming feeling of closeness and relief. Maybe I was a sad, broken shell of a man, beaten into the ground and toppling toward insanity on faulty legs, but if I could die in this moment I knew I'd at least go to hell happy, my last thought an overwhelming need to comfort her and see her smile at me.

Gasping for air as my nose and throat closed and the cotton of her shirt beneath my face soaked through with my tears, I reached my other arm to squeeze her tight. When my voice came out, it was wracked with phlegm and I struggled not to bury my face in her again.

"Cerea? Can-Can I call you that?"

No answer came, but I could feel her nodding into my shoulder as she gulped in air between sobs. The proud facade I'd longed after on page and screen, in the little doodles sketched in my dreams by a lonely mind, wasn't here with her, at least not now; Cerea's body shook and I guessed that whatever she had dreamt of me before waking, no matter if it had took just seconds by the clock, must've been much the same as my own dreams of her. They had warned me about that, as I lay down on metal with electrodes swaddling my skull- she might remember me in a dream or in the small hours of the night, but there were no guarantees against nightmares. I wondered if my own subconscious had shaped her visions- maybe some of my own fears and hopes had crossed that thick dark cable trailing off between me and the shrouded form that would become her. Dreams had always come easy for me- sometimes the usual warp of melting clocks and accidental nudity, sometimes falling off a cliff, and sometimes images of _her_ , laughing as we gazed at the stars. Sometimes the hot smell of burning flesh and a white light, and my own body screaming orders as it crumpled into a wreck. I prayed that she had only seen me in the good days, my own dreams of her and me and a happy life. In a way she'd been born not months ago, with no time to accumulate the kind of evil stew lurking below the surface that most people push away in waking hours. Maybe I was just getting too philosophical, after all- the warm press of us together wasn't a place for me to mope, not anymore.

Gently, I stroked her hair with my thumb, trying to compose myself to speak.

"Cerea, you don't need to stay here, but-" and I shifted my shoulders, forcing the tears back into me, "-but I just wanted those happy dreams to be real, and did my best to make you real, and, if you want to, maybe we…"

The darkness was rising up, clawing at my hopes and whispering that this was all a lie. That I'd be better off just running away from this house, grabbing a bag and moving to some island where I'd watch the sun set through the bottom of a bottle, where there'd be normal hookers and no more dreams and I could live a normal life without wanting something unreal. But against the whispers I felt the weight of years, crushing back the darkness under the weight of a delusional hope that just maybe I'd found the world's most insane path to happiness, that I'd chased the dream of love and comfort down the decades and I might just find it in the flick of a tail, in my own dream that guided me to making it real. I'd always been, well, kind of an asshole, an unlucky bastard, but maybe there was a place for bastards that found a pretty girl in the pages of a book and clung on to her in dreams until the dawn came. Maybe we could be happy together. And so I pushed back the doubts and spoke my hope aloud.

"Maybe we could make those dreams real together?"

6


	3. Breakfast

The floor was cold and hard, a dull ache in my hips from being pressed into the unyielding wood. As I twisted myself upright, I could feel the familiar stiffness of spending a night on hard ground, the tingling as my numb arms woke up a familiar unpleasantness.

Sometimes I had dreams of her, lovely ones of running through the forest and hearing the rustle of her racing right behind me, or simply strolling on the beach together as the sun set. Sometimes I had nightmares, of blood and sand and the smell of smoke searing away my sense of smell. I had always been a vivid dreamer, sometimes carrying those dreams with me into the day with horrible sleep paralysis. But today was just empty, it seemed, with the soft fuzz of a forgotten dream wearing away as the sun came in.

I got up, stumbling my way to the bathroom with my eyes squinted against the light. The water was colder than usual, and the blade against my cheeks scraped in the same pattern it had made for decades. I was so set in my patterns that, as usual, my final flowering of wakefulness occurred precisely at the moment I flushed the toilet,

Stomping out of the bathroom with thuds and clangs, I groggily swung myself around the corner into the kitchen for my customary breakfast. Cold cereal would be great, I supposed. Nothing like crunchy little bits of grain in milk to kick-start another day of the same routine.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Sleeping on the floor wasn't part of my normal routine.

Feeling a sick feeling rise in my stomach, remembering a dream that I knew would crush me in the morning, I dashed back to my bedroom, With a sick jerk, the familiar lurch of my stomach hit me, the knowledge that reality wasn't as good as the dream roiling up to tug any happiness down.

I rounded the corner and back into my dream, reeling as I stood in the doorway. She was propped up on one arm, the soft rays of light from the window mixing with her draped hair across her bleary eyes. The covers, lost in the shuffle of waking, lay discarded on the far side of my bed, one lonely fold of the comforter nestled around her waist.

The air felt like it was sucked out of my chest, and part of a mind that had waited too long to remember hope groaned creakily into life inside my head. _She's here_ , I told myself. She had haunted my dreams for too long, but now she was here, laying in my bed with the soft curves of her body snugly resting on the sheets of a bed I had made long ago to fit us both.

"Centorea?"

My voice was shaky, dry like it was every morning, and I felt the hoarse croak wobble into the air.

"Did you sleep OK?"

As she stirred, carefully levering herself up to face me, my memories swam. Nervously showing her the bed, showing her the strange carpentry of mixed-species furniture and withdrawing silently to the living room. Promising her that I'd be there all night and we could talk again in the morning, after we had both had a chance to think and sleep.

She coughed and shifted, coming to stand in front of me with a blanket wrapped around her waist and the large T-shirt I had scrounged up for her to sleep in.

"Yes, thank you." She hesitated, unsure of herself, and I let a torrent of words spill into the opening.

"Do you want to stay? At least for- for breakfast? I can make us something, but if you want to eat alone that's fine too, and-" I stopped. This wasn't… it didn't feel right somehow; I didn't want to be a nervous, simpering wreck around her, but she was just so… Seeing her in the flesh, as it were, somehow inspired a nervousness that seeing her likeness on a screen could never instill.

"Well, if you want to have breakfast with me, please join me in the kitchen; I'll make us something nice. I hope. I'll try, at least."

I stepped back, out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind me. The kitchen was suddenly less a place of comforting routine and more one of disturbing novelty. Long years of cooking for one might have, I feared, warped my abilities into something unrecognizable by any decent chef.

Cerea stepped out, hooves tapping lightly on the hardwood as she followed me. I looked back to see her eyes sweep the living room, still in disarray from her strange arrival- a metal box, a tangle of blankets in a makeshift nest, a waste basket full of tear-stained tissues. When she saw me, though, she smiled slightly, and I smiled back, trying to reassure her that I wasn't _totally_ out of my depth.

 _Let's see…_ Pancakes, I thought. Maybe waffles? I personally could go for some bacon right now, but I didn't know if her vegetarian habits still, well, _existed_ in her current form, and anyway, it was perhaps best not to go for anything that could burn too easily. Waffles would be nice; I had my trusty waffle-maker, four heart-shaped waffles connected side-to-side in a circle. Warming to the idea, I called over my shoulder.

"Are waffles OK with you? I have some carrots I can slice up into the batter, if that would be better."

She entered the kitchen behind me, looking around with what I could only call a poorly-disguised curiosity.

"Yes." Her voice was lovely, even fogged by sleepiness. "That would be nice, I think. Please let me assist you, if you want."

I flushed. I had dreamed of making her waffles in bed with a side of delicious, crunchy carrots, soft-focus camera playing across our flawlessly pajama-clad forms laughing and enjoying a perfect breakfast in bed. Instead, I had my stiff, skivvy-shirted body and her in improvised pajamas, making breakfast with a waffle maker from the last decade. And a bag of baby carrots that I had bought… three weeks ago? Four?

It'd have to do.

"Well, I can make the batter," I replied. "If you want to," and this was punctuated with a rattle of cutlery as I plucked a knife from the drawer, "you can cut the carrots?"

Stooping to pull the waffle maker from its nest among the blender and a set of serving trays, I gestured above me to the counter. It was a stepped design I had installed last May, one lower surface at my waist and another larger platform eight inches up. It wouldn't be in any home-and-garden best-of collection any time soon, but it was comfortable to use and hard-wearing.

"The cutting boards are up her," I said, "and the fridge behind you there has pretty much all the food."

She turned, and the metal stand for the microwave rattled as her hind legs bumped it. Color rose to her cheeks, but I very deliberately ignored it and set a mixing bowl on the counter.

"Could you please get the eggs and milk?" I asked.

I did, of course, need the eggs and milk, but part of me wanted her to see the fridge. It had taken a bit of re-routing of various pipes and cables, but the coolant pump was now on the base where the crisper should have gone, leaving the whole interior elevated comfortably within her reach. Not to mention that it was an industrial model. When I was going through the process of little checkboxes and menus and discussions with techs that I assiduously told myself was _just making sure she was herself_ , I had made sure she could digest in a more or less normal manner instead of… others'… more mechanical means of powering themselves. Still, the pleasant bulk of her body close to me in the kitchen was a very visible reminder that she would need more food than I did.

"Don't worry about the shelf," I told her, having something to focus on lessening my nervous tension. The recipe was a familiar one, more-or-less weekly waffles since I had got out making it almost muscle memory.

"It happens; I slipped a couple days ago and chipped the counter."

I didn't think it was necessary to mention that the "slip" was a nerve interface misfiring, searing pain eating its way up my left leg in a series of spasms leaving scratches on the tile floor and a bloody gash alongside my forearm. No use spilling the awkward details.

Cerea laid the items to rest next to me, cantering over to the counter opposite the sink and picking up the knife left out.

"Steel?" she asked, tapping its blade on the plastic of the cutting board.

"Uh, no," I replied, distracted by the gooey _plorp_ of an egg into the bowl. It was nice to have something to do, something to do with her. "I think it's some sort of plastic; same stuff as-" _my leg_ and _your bones_ seemed gruesomely real, so I lamely settled for "the counter. It seems just like metal to me, though."

She pulled open the bag of carrots with practiced ease, and I marveled internally at how casual it seemed. I guess intellectually I had known that she'd have a lifetime's worth of, well, life and memories, but part of me was still expecting, and afraid, that she'd have a stock set of phrases and actions and so on. Still, I had to tear my eyes away from the way her forearms worked as she laid the carrots out, their little orange crispness vanishing in a series of precise chops. _Chop chop chop_ , and then a scattering of shavings, whisked into a pile.

"You can put those in a bowl," I added, nodding at the strainer just as I kicked myself for not clearing out the dry dishes.

She nodded, and went back to work. There was a comforting feeling about working side-by-side, and the part of me not deeply invested in mixing the batter hummed with excitement. Here she was, no longer the resident of a dream or a set of lines on a page, but more-or-less flesh-and-blood chopping carrots next to me. I was scared that any moment I'd wake up, that it'd be back to the loneliness, but also hopeful that maybe this could be a new normal. It felt nice, like _this_ was what mornings were supposed to be, not a dull ache while shaving.

Finally, the harsh rap of the knife on the cutting board ceased, and the batter was an appropriate single beige, minus the fragment of eggshell I was pretty sure slipped in somewhere. I looked over to see if she was ready. She was peeking over at me, a bowl full of chopped carrots resting on the counter and a few lonely little carrots on the cutting board. When my eyes met hers, she flushed and picked up the knife again.

I grabbed the bowl, my own face burning a little as I felt her heat so close to me. I couldn't help but smile at the look on her face and the faint downward tilt of her ears, just like I had imagined for so long.

"Are those extras?" I asked, cradling the bowl of carrot shavings and unwilling to leave her side just yet.

Cerea nodded, her knife hovering uncertainly.

Smiling further, I hefted the bowl.

"I think that's enough, don't you? I guess I'm not going to eat the extras…"

I placed the chopped carrots down next to the mixing bowl, reaching over to grab one of the little extras.

"Well," I continued, as I bit into it.

"Maybe just one."

There were some details that any amount of stylized art couldn't capture. The barely perceptible twist of her mouth in a smile, the glint in her eyes- it was fascinating, like I had never really seen her before, just reflections and shadows. Maybe it was in bad taste, but I couldn't help but stare as she picked up one of the sad, still-thawing baby carrots and crunched it experimentally. The slight wiggle of her ears as she chewed and the ripple in her throat as she swallowed were both fascinating to me, but when she caught my eye I knew that it was probably _too_ fascinating.

"Um."

All traces of my earlier flash of ease had vanished.

"What do you think?"

Cerea nodded.

"It is… not bad."

There was a hesitancy to her voice that made my stomach sink. I knew her sense of taste would be more sensitive than mine, and even I didn't think they were fantastic.

"I know they're not great but it was what I had on hand. The waffles should be better with small chunks, don't you think?"

She cocked her head, pausing to munch on another baby carrot.

"Yes. I think they will be."

With a great sense of relief, I retreated back to my side of the counter and plugged in the waffle maker. It made a cheerful chirp, and I upended the carrot bowl into the batter. I took the wooden mixing spoon from its place on the counter and held it out to her.

"Would you like to do the honors?"

She took it from me, stepping up to the mixing bowl.

"If you wish."

I didn't want her to think I _wanted_ her to do all the work. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel like I thought of her as something less than human; not when I had spent so long thinking of her as so much more. I was, I realized, probably overthinking it, but s till… I couldn't help but worry.

Now that I wasn't occupied with mixing or cracking eggs or being otherwise interested, the awkwardness I felt returned. Watching her stir the carrots into the batter was soothing in a way; the ordinary, everyday action felt familiar and reassuring. It was a little funny, I had to admit, to see her struggle at first to get a rhythm going, but when she did I had to busy myself with adjusting the timer on the waffle maker to avoid staring too long at Cerea methodically mixing the carrots in.

"Is this good?" she asked, brushing an errant lock of hair away from her face.

I hopped over to the bowl. The batter was a rich cream color now, with the slivers of orange disappearing into the liquid and giving it a bit more color.

"Oh, yes." It certainly looked good, even though her close proximity to me was taking up more of my attention than the food. "I think we're good to pour."

The waffle maker was old but solid, a memento from earlier times. Four hearts connected edge-to-edge with a grid pattern inlaid, it had been the source of many Sunday breakfasts for me over the years. Now, though, the hearts seemed hopeful.

"Here, let me get that." I seized the mixing bowl and began to pour, watching the carrot chunks topple out of the bowl in the flood of batter. When the pool of batter in the center of the hearts was a decent size, I leveled off and set the bowl downS

"You want to learn how to use this?" I asked, and was relieved when Cerea replied.

"Yes; that'd be nice."

"OK." I closed the lid onto the batter, and the orange heart-shaped light on the lid blinked on. "So, it's working now, and it's going to chirp twice. Sounds like a robot bird. The first time it goes, you take them out only if you made two of the little hearts, otherwise you wait until it chirps a second time."

She pointed at the little bucket of utensils. "Then use one of the spatulas?"

I nodded. "Yep. Careful, though; the silicone ones get a little wobbly. The"

We stood there. Now that the busy work was done, there wasn't much to distract us. The awkward silence was growing, and I could tell she was feeling it too.

"So." I had to say something, if only just to say something.

"It's going to be a few minutes. Uh, if you have any, you know, anything to say…" I left it open for however she wanted to interpret that.

Cerea frowned. "Well, and I apologize if this is too forward, but I did have some questions that came to me."

 _Shit_. A dozen possibilities flashed into my mind for her questions, few of them easy to explain. "Sure, go ahead."

She hesitated, and I could tell by the way her ears moved that she was deep in thought.

"How… How did you do all this?"

I gestured at the waffle maker. "Making waffles?"

That got a small smile. "Not that. I've noticed that a lot of your home here seems to be strangely… accommodating, I might say, for me."

Fighting the urge to shuffle my feet in nervousness, I bit down the urge to spill out with everything in an ungainly flood.

"Well, I can… I can tell you why and what and all that, if you want. About, you know, _this_. Being here."

She took in a breath, and I was reminded that this wasn't easy for her, either. Not to mention we were both standing in a kitchen, in pajamas, awkwardly tiptoeing around the meaning of life. Her life, at least, and the meaning she had in mine.

"Yes. If you would."

Now it was my turn to sigh. "Look, if you hate me for it all, I understand. I won't force you to stay, and you can even take the waffles." Humor had always been my last refuge, at least, and one that seemed to amuse her a little, no matter how obviously she was trying to conceal it.

"But… I'll just tell it straight out. I, uh, well. It's been a long time. I was in the hospital after getting hurt. Really hurt." I shifted my leg, kicking it out a little bit for emphasis. "As you probably guessed. There's more to that but it wasn't all bad. I was in the hospital for about a year. I had to learn how to walk again, and the drugs they had me on were preventing me from going anywhere, doing anything."

I took another deep breath, fighting to keep myself calm.

"All I could do was read and browse the internet and watch movies and really anything you could do while laying in bed. And I did a lot of it. A lot of books, shows, magazines, games, anything. And I was lonely. The woman I was… with, at the time… she wasn't a good person. I was useless to her now that I wasn't someone she could show off, and she left me, and, well. It wasn't a happy time for me, I was depressed; I had no one, my family was gone or dead, my friends either slowly drifted apart or were far away, and, you know. As a man… no woman wanted a broken man."

I could feel the tears rising up. It had been a long time since I had thought of that, thought of anything but what came after.

"And that's where." Again I had to stop and steady my voice. "Where I found you."

I don't know what I expected. Her brow didn't furrow in confusion, she didn't erupt in anger or frustration. Cerea's only reaction was a slow nod. She wasn't stupid, not at all; I couldn't have expected her to not have a feeling about it by now.

"It was a book series I found drifting around the internet, just a happy story where I could go and escape from being lonely and tied down in my own body, and I could think of happy people and romance and joy for a while."

It was dumb, I knew it; I had told myself that but some things have a way of sticking to you and staying with you. Saying it out loud was… it made the whole thing sound weirder, smaller, in a way.

"But the series ended and I had to wait a few months, a chapter here, a chapter there, and I left the hospital and tried to piece together my life. It was- it was hard. I got a job where I didn't need to be out and around people who would stare, and I tried finding someone to be with, and it didn't go anywhere, but… but you stayed with me."

Now I knew she could see the tears welling up, from the way her eyes searched mine.

"You were- you are- brave and good and beautiful, and I was thinking all the time 'what would she do?' and 'I bet she'd enjoy going here' and all that, and, well, the time came when I was looking at a picture of you, and I had to stop."

The wet trickle of a tear was working its way down my face, and somehow my arms were braced on the counter behind me.

"I just thought _she's so pretty._ I thought… I thought your smile was the kindest smile I had ever seen, even though it was just lines on paper or a little cluster of pixels on a screen. I just- I just needed to admit it."

Another great sigh.

"I was in love."

Her eyes widened slightly, her ears twitched, and I couldn't tell if that was the ghost of a smile or the beginnings of a frown, but I had to continue to the end.

"The years went by, and I was pining for you, trapped away from you all the time by a glass wall. I drew pictures and wrote little stories and things, and… you made me happy. Even if it was just all one-sided, the emails I wrote to a dead mailbox, it was good. It was the happiest part of my life."

Her mouth was slightly parted now, and I knew it was strange to hear. It had to be.

"It was like… like I was living in one of those stories I loved as a kid, where the knight pines after a girl in a magic box, or under a spell, but you _were_ the spell. Dreamed up by someone else as part of their story that I couldn't help but make part of mine. You were just a character in one of those stories, Cer- Centorea, but you were more than that to me."

I paused, seeing if she was ready to storm out in confusion and anger, but she just stared back at me, unmoving. _Time to see this through to the end_ , I thought. I had said too much now to quit.

"Sometimes the thought of you was what stayed my hand, when it got to be almost too much; sometimes the thought of being able to turn those dreams real was what kept me going. So I continued and lived life as best as I could, and here and there I did the little things to make those stories real. The bed, the doors… just working on the place for her- for you- kept me moving forward. And then the day came."

Now was the hard part.

"They were all online first, expensive as hell- sorry- but I had been saving for something like this, and. Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Cerea. I'm so sorry. I just- I couldn't keep living without you, not when the hope was so close, and I had so many doubts and worries and I know you'll hate me for this, but- your bones aren't really bones. Well, they are, but your body, I, I, shit. I told them how you are, told them how you smiled and how your ears twitch when you're happy and how you're noble and wonderful inside, and they made you into being."

That, I thought, was shock on her face.

"Those memories you have of dreaming of me, I, well, I asked them to put that little seed of me in your mind, and the memories of the house and your friends and _everything_ , those are from the story, as best as they could do, because I needed you to be _you_. And you slept in a lab while your mind grew, like a vine climbing on one of those wire cages to fill out the shape I knew you had. I'm so sorry, but… I know it's fucked up- sorry- but your body is kind of like, well, parts of my body." I couldn't bring myself to say _fake_ , not really.

"I loved you so much, loved the idea of you, so much, I knew that maybe all my love had a soul it was going toward and I couldn't help myself; I made you real. I know it's selfish, but… I had to."

Now I was crying again, hearing my own words and sobbing at the sadness I heard in them.

"I know it's horrible. I shouldn't have. I could have just kept you, too, as a happy, loving automaton, but I couldn't. I needed you to be real, and I don't care if maybe you're different in your bones because you're you in any way I care about. That's… that's all. I'm so sorry."

She stared back at me, and I could see her eyes glassy with her own tears. Her lips parted again to speak, and she stepped toward me-

 _ **BREEP BREEP BRRREEEEEP!**_

The cheerful alarm of the waffle maker interrupted us both, catching us in our weird little tableaux. For a moment we both froze, centaur and man, as the heart-shaped light pulsed happily. It was funny in its own way, a little machine completely ignorant of the emotional turmoil going through us both.

 _ **BREEP BREEP BRRREEEEEP!**_

Two more beeps and it was done, silence settling back over the kitchen.

Cerea's eyes shone with tears and I feared the worst. Not for the first time I was aware that she could probably kick me through the wall, but it didn't look like that was where her thoughts were.

"You loved me?" Her voice was strong, stronger than mine would have been had our places been reversed.

I nodded.

"Why?"

There were a million answers to that question, and all of them came rushing out at once.

"You're just wonderful, to me at least. You've got a sense of honor and goodness and loyalty and wonder about you that's like nothing else. I don't know how many times I've thought that I need to keep pushing, keep going, because it's what you'd do. Something about you just seems _good_ and I wish I could be that good. And you've just made me smile a lot and I've wanted to just hold you and I love the way your ears twitch when you're happy and-"

I stopped, realizing I was babbling.

"Yeah. I, uh, could go on."

There was a strange quiet in the kitchen now, like the eerie calm after a tornado. I had said too much, but I couldn't _not_ say it, really. When Cerea finally spoke, it was with a curious tone.

"Those dreams I had of you; were those real?"

That wasn't quite what I expected.

"Were they natural dreams? No, not really. Everything in them happened, though. Most of them are memories of mine, after a sort, just from… outside me, if that makes sense. Like a movie of my memories. I don't really know what other dreams you had."

Her ears cocked downwards in a gesture I had come to associate with some strong emotion.

"They were lovely dreams." She flushed, realizing that perhaps some of them weren't so lovely. "They were, that is, not dreams I minded having. Even if they were strange."

My heart leaped to hear her words, even if I couldn't quite figure out her reaction. I grimaced, leaning away from the counter to stand upright again.

"I'm sorry it's all a dream, in a way. The memories you have, the dreams you had, all just little waves in your brain…"

Her eyes flashed, and I could see for a split second a vision of her in full fury, a thought made much more tangible by her presence.

"Everything I've thought and felt about you is just a dream?"

I nodded, a sick feeling rising now. I should have seen this coming. I deserved it, after all.

But then her tone softened. "Everything you've thought and felt about… about me, then, has just been a dream as well, has it not?"

All I could do was nod again.

"Can you remember a day ago, two days, and tell me that you are sure that your memories are true?"

Before I could respond, Cerea stepped forward, now just a foot away from me.

"The impact of those memories is the same, and should we live in constant doubt or push forth into the future?"

"Uh… yes?"

Again, the faint hint of a smile played on her lips.

"Then I think I shall look forward to knowing the man from whom the dreams came. After all, I am sure your knowledge of me does not extend as far as you fear."

Relief and wariness and excitement coursed through me as I looked up at her, and I felt shabby and small, a muddy-eyed little man next to her beauty. With a sudden boldness that came from somewhere inside me I hadn't felt for a long time, I reached my hand out to place on top of hers. Her hand felt warm and strong, and she didn't pull away.

I looked up at her, meeting her gaze and smiling even as I could feel tears of a different sort welling up. Marshaling all my will to keep my voice steady, I-

 _ **BREEP BREEP BRRREEEEEP!**_

My composure cracked and fell apart, and I withdrew my hand to stifle a laugh. Cerea struggled hard, too, I could tell, although she hid it with more dignity than I could.

My laughter struggled to burst through at the sheer absurdity of it all, and it took a moment for me to regain my composure enough to speak.

"Should we finish making breakfast, then?"

Cerea's reply was lost to another shrill chirping, and when the waffle maker finally stopped, she merely nodded with a smile on her face.

I opened the lid of the waffle maker; the result looked appetizing enough- one of the waffles was burnt slightly, carrots shavings brown in an almost blackened crust, but overall it was the same rich gold of my typical Sunday morning breakfast, speckled with orange.

"There are plates up there," I called, pointing up at the cupboards above the counter. "Would you like some syrup? There's some in the next one over, too."

Together, we set ourselves places at the table, the tension from earlier mostly subsided into the calming bustle of preparing a meal. Cerea arranged the cutlery as I prepped another batch of waffles, and with an assortment of trips between cupboards, fridge, and heater we had something of a breakfast prepared.

In lieu of chairs for her, I had a squat padded bench at the head of the table, something I had built a while ago in anticipation. Styling it to match the chairs was difficult, but the result, I thought, wasn't _too_ bad, and I could see Cerea taking note.

"You made this for me, too?" she asked, her voice tinged with something I hoped was admiration of a saort.

As I settled into one of the plain wooden chairs next to her, I nodded.

"Yeah. I hope it's not uncomfortable; I tried to make sure things would be comfortable for you once… well, once now happened. I'm sorry about the upstairs though; there was no room to put in anything more fitting."

Cerea shrugged, a motion that seemed somehow elegant when she did it.

"No matter; I am used to not fitting everything. I hope it's not too much of a bother for you."

I laughed. "No, no, not at all. I'm… really relieved you want to stay, at least for a little while." When I noticed she was eying the plate of waffles and her fork, I picked up my own.

"Go ahead, don't feel the need to wait for me."

I held out the plate of waffles with my other hand, and she forked a few onto her own plate. Feeling a little more at ease, I cocked an eyebrow.

"That all you want?"

Cerea looked at the waffles again, and I could see her trying to restrain herself. Finally, she relented and forked over another stack. I took the remaining few and settled in.

"Let me know what you think," I said. "I might be a little out of practice."

With a refreshing lack of hesitancy, she put a forkful of waffle to her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. Despite munching on my own breakfast, I was more focused on her- even the little things were strangely new and interesting with her, from the way her jaw worked when she chewed to the gleam in her eyes when the morning sun was at just the right angle.

"It's… good, actually."

The tips of Cerea's ears fluttered in a fashion that I found… adorable, honestly. That was the only word for it.

"Really?"

She paused between forkfuls.

"Yes. They're a bit strong, perhaps, for my taste, but they're very lovely overall; thank you!"

 _Strong_ , I thought. The waffles tasted pretty bland to me, in the absence of my usual apple-shaving topping, but I supposed that she was more sensitive to taste than I was.

We ate in silence then, the warmth inside me growing to see she wasn't reluctant to eat the little carrot-laced hearts. Frequently I stopped to steal a glance at her, and something inside me that I hadn't felt for a long time blossomed when I caught her eyes. Briefly, the flicker at the edges of her mouth bloomed into a shy smile as our eyes met, and every fiber of my being told me to reach out and touch her. But I didn't, and we continued to eat, and as the waffles dwindled and our silence turned from awkward to comfortable, I knew that at least for now, things were looking up.

12


End file.
